


The Baker Street Baking Blog

by EmmyAngua



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Firefighters, Attempted Kidnapping, Bakery, Baking, Fire, Food, John Watson's Blog, Locked In, M/M, Pining John, Pining Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-09 11:34:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1145490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmyAngua/pseuds/EmmyAngua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock runs a website, The Science of Baking, and does experiments with yeast. When John Watson moves in Sherlock begins to fear his life may not hold enough excitement to hold the man's attention. Bakery/Baking AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1electricpirate asked for this before New Year and it’s been horribly delayed (due to Sherlock and real life.) Apologies, and I hope the fact it's going to be a two-parter makes up for it a bit! 
> 
> Note: No spoilers for S3.

**In Which I Clear Up Some Misconceptions**

By John H. Watson

I was actually at a bit of a loss over what to write for this entry. The last consultation Sherlock got involved in was for a well-known cake company and its worth more than my life to tell you what he was working on. Let’s just say if they were ‘exceedingly good’ before then, they’re truly exceptional now.  

As I write this Sherlock is huffing and puffing because he’s knocked over some vitally important jar of yeast while swishing around the kitchen in his dressing gown. He’s as graceful as a cat and as accidentally destructive as one too. Anyway this yeast… stinks. Words cannot describe how much. It’s January and we’ve had to open all the windows so that we can breathe. I have no idea how it could ever have been used to bake something edible with.

It would be so much easier if Sherlock’s experiments were something legitimately disgusting. And Sherlock, when you read this entry, that is not, I repeat **not** , a challenge.

What I mean is that when I complain that Sherlock’s baking is taking over the flat, most people imagine eggshells dripping onto the counter or clouds of icing sugar puffing up into the air. They never imagine the bubbling jars, vats of strange smelling gloop, or food in advance stages of decay which make up the overwhelming majority of the debris in our kitchen.

Sometimes a flatmate who kept body parts hanging around the place would be a relief; at least then I’d be able to have a good moan and people would be sympathetic.

**UPDATE**

Sherlock is having a tantrum and would like you to know that the yeast was never designed for actual food and that if I think that he bakes just to feed people then I’ve missed the point entirely.

**UPDATE 2**

Sherlock would like you to know that he is not ‘having a tantrum’. Nor does he 'huff' or 'puff'.

**UPDATE 3**

I do have something baking related to add. Sherlock has tidied up and made some macarons which he claims are not an apology and purely for himself. Even though he hates macarons. They are, as usual, spectacular (with a slight hint of lemon and honey). Recipe to follow.

 

 

 

 

__

 

John meets Sherlock (the first time) while John is working. Sherlock is very much part of that work, because Sherlock has accidentally set his kitchen on fire. He, his furious landlady, and the staff of the café below are all gathered on the pavement outside.

In is many years of service, John has seen men try and enter burning buildings for many reasons, nearly always foolish ones, but this is the first time he’s seen anyone willing to put life and limb on the line for dough.

“It’s still in the proving drawer!” Sherlock is hissing at John’s colleague while being, if not held back, then at least made aware that holding back will be shortly on the cards if this behaviour continues. Despite this he looks the picture of grace and style, except for the blanket that a braver person than John has draped around his shoulders.

John wonders if shock may indeed be the cause of this mania for dough, but he doesn’t think of it long because Sherlock is quickly distracted by the landlady, who chooses that moment to recover from her own shock.

“SHERLOCK HOLMES – YOU AND THAT BUNSEN BURNER – I WARNED YOU THAT SOMETHING LIKE THIS WOULD HAPPEN -”

John makes a hasty exit upstairs to the smouldering kitchen where there is still work to be done. All in all it could have been a lot worse. There’s no structural damage and given a few days the place will be habitable again. The kitchen is a wreck but it’s nothing an insurance payment and a refurb won’t solve.

He notices, out of the corner of his eye, a metallic drawer that has escaped the worst of the fire. John steps over and cautiously pulls it open.

“Who’d have thought it?” he grins. “The dough survived!”

He takes out the bowl, finishes his work, then goes back downstairs to reunite rescued dough with overprotective baker.

Sherlock takes one look at the bowl, snatches it from John, and begins prodding at the mixture.

“It’s over proofed!” he seethes.

John raises his brows, amused despite himself. “Well yeah, that’s what happens when you leave it in a burning building.”  

Sherlock groans and smashes the bowl onto the ground in frustration. This earns him another wave of screeching abuse from the landlady.

“It’s the shock!” he’s saying defensively as John walks away. “Look I’ve got a blanket!”

John grins. He’s looking forward to telling this story down the pub.

 

\--

 

One year later and John has already moved through ‘extended leave’ and is encroaching ever nearer to ‘permanent leave.’ Soon the delicate enquiries about his health are going to become frank questions.

_“Is your leg going to get better?”_

_“Are you going to be able to come back?”_

He doesn’t think his answer – _“It turns out my leg won’t get better until I go back to work so why not let me have a go?”_ – is going to go down particularly well. Firefighting is surprisingly competitive, with a lot more trained workers than jobs available. Younger men than John are waiting for him to leave.

A building collapsed on him and now he has a psychosomatic limp. They have every right to be deeply concerned about his mental state.  It doesn’t make it any easier though.

He is walking and brooding over the problem when he runs into Mike.

Mike Stamford was John’s first boss, a pen-pusher of the highest order, but a nice enough guy so long as he didn’t get involved in the practical work. He’s retired now, more jovial than ever, and clearly not missing the fitness tests.

In short he’s exactly the last person John wants to see.

“C’mon,” says Mike after a few minutes of incredibly awkward catch-up, “it’s free cake day. You’ll love this.”

John trails after him, baffled at this strange comment. He likes cake, doesn’t object to free portions of it, but has no idea why Mike is so enthused that he experience it.

When he makes a comment to that effect Mike merely grins. “It’ll be a blast from the past.”

They arrive at Speedy’s on Baker Street where a small queue has already formed. It’s not a bakery as John had expected; it’s a perfectly normal café. There is no mention of free cake so John assumes these people must be in the know, like Mike. 

They join the back of the queue and are soon talking about old times. It isn’t until they are inside that Mike moves onto slightly more uncomfortable topics.

“So where are you staying now? You never did like to settle in one place.”

“Wherever’s cheapest. Sick pay doesn’t stretch far.”

“Are you looking?”

John gives a huff that indicates his hope of finding something.

Behind the counter two women are rushing around making drinks and sandwiches. A third person, a man, is standing to one side and completely ignoring all the actual work going on. Behind him are several covered platters but John ignores them, too busy staring at the familiar face.

“I know him! He’s the mad baker!” John chuckles. “I thought this place looked familiar.”

Mike grins. “Ran across it not so long ago and remembered him from that night. He’s really quite something. Crazy about baking, as you’d expect. Complete lunatic but brilliant at what he does.”

John looks around. “He owns this place?”

Mike shrugs. “Landlady does. Sherlock provides the daily pastries and bread for free to pay off the kitchen refurbishment, and he gets to use the customers as guinea pigs once a week.”

The woman in front of them is served and just as she turns to leave Sherlock leans forward to hand her a cupcake with mint green icing.

“Eat it before you leave,” Sherlock orders. “I want opinions.”

Once the girl has awkwardly moved out of the way to try and eat her cupcake while still juggling her drink and sandwich, Mike moves up the counter.

“Afternoon Sherlock, I’ll have a cappuccino and whatever you’re hiding over there.”

One of the women fetch the drink; Sherlock nods in greeting and hands over a huge slab of fruitcake.

“This is John Watson,” Mike says as John orders a black coffee to take away. “Don’t know if you remember him…?”

Sherlock’s only response is to hand John several chunks of pale, miserable looking shortbread and shoo them away to eat. If he recognises the fireman who attempted to save his dough he makes no indication of it.

John tries not to be bothered.

“That’s some customer service,” he mutters instead, once they are standing out of the way of the rest of the customers.

“Yeah, but trust me, you’re in for a treat. Sherlock’s recipes are spectacular.”

Looking at the shortbread, John doubts this very much. He bites into it and tries not to wince at the sickly sweetness and the strange artificial aftertaste. He takes a gulp of coffee and side-eyes Mike, who is making noises that suggest his fruitcake is a much more pleasant experience.

“How’s the shortbread?” Mike asks. “And I warn you, just because it looks like he’s not listening, doesn’t mean that he’s not.”

They glance over at Sherlock who is neither looking at them nor giving any indication that he’s aware of their existence.

“Well I don’t mind telling you – and him – that that was one truly most awful shortbread experiences of my life. And my sister went through a baking phase when she was twelve.”

Mike laughs.

“Yes I must apologise for it.”

John turns around. Somehow, possibly by magic, Sherlock has moved around the counter and is now standing with them. This makes Mike laugh even harder.

“Can’t win ‘em all Sherlock.”

Sherlock looks mildly frustrated. “Yes well, that one is for a consultation that’s proving to be trickier than I hoped.”

“Consultation?” asks John.

Sherlock shrugs. “When companies can’t find a way to make a recipe work they come to me and I apply my science to it. In this case the company in question wants fat free, sugar free, gluten free, vegan shortbread at less than 20 calories a slice.”

“And you’re going to let them mass produce that garbage?”

Sherlock shrugs. “I just wanted to prove that it was possible. I never claim it’s advisable. I don’t go in for advisable anything.”

“I bet you don’t,” says John, realising too late that he was speaking aloud.

Sherlock blinks. If John had to guess he’d say that the man looks surprised.

“How do you feel about the violin?” he says suddenly.

John is stymied. “Sorry, what?”

“You’re not allergic to anything either? I use a lot of nuts and strange ingredients and they tend to end up in all sorts of places…”

John looks at Mike, who looks equally lost. “Sorry… I’m afraid I don’t follow?”

The man rolls his eyes as if baffled at their slowness. He gestures between himself and John. “I’m in need of a flatmate, you’re in need of permanent lodgings. I made the next logical step.”

“How did you know I was in need of a new place?” John demands.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “You said it in the queue. I was on the other side of the counter, not sound proof glass.”

“Oh.”

Every instinct in John’s body is agreeing that moving in with this mad, handsome baking lunatic is the best idea they’ve ever heard, but John has far too much self-control to allow financial suicide.

“No offense but this zone is somewhat out of my price range…”

Sherlock waves a dismissive hand. “Mrs. Hudson has been demanding I find a ‘calming influence’ for months. She acts like I’m always setting fire to kitchens even though I’ve pointed out that one fire doesn’t make it a habit… if I tell her I’m moving a firefighter in she’ll probably let you stay for free. I’ll finish up here and you can come up and take a look. It’s much less singed than when you last saw it.”

Mike grins and claps John on the back. “Fantastic news! I’ll leave you boys to it.”

 

 

\--

End Part 1

 


	2. Chapter 2

“Admit it, you only moved here because of the name of the street.”

Sherlock looks up from the filo pastry he has spent the last forty minutes carefully stretching out. It’s still only five in the morning, but John keeps irregular hours thanks to a lifetime of shift work. Sherlock had initially thought that this would be annoying and is privately surprised at how much the early morning company pleases him.

John isn’t doing much. He’s sitting in his chair and trying to work on his mandatory therapy blog, which means that he’s much more interested in glancing back over his shoulder to watch Sherlock work. Sherlock doesn’t mind this in the least.

“Of course I didn’t.”

“You so did! The Consulting Baker who lives on Baker Street…”

“Actually my old kitchen was far too small.” Sherlock tries to sound lofty. He doesn’t want John to know he actually went a step further and tried to convince Mrs. Hudson to ditch the café and let him turn it into an actual bakery as well.

He suspects John doesn’t believe him.

“I bet you’re hoping that in hundreds of years' time people will wonder whether they named Baker Street after you…”

The thought has crossed Sherlock’s mind but he would rather shred his perfect filo pastry than admit that aloud. It’s worrying how well John seems to know him after only one month of living together.

“I found your website by the way,” says John conversationally after a small, comfortable silence. “The Science of Baking.”

Sherlock freezes. “And?”

_What did he think?_

“It’s a bit… technical.”

A criticism. Oh.

“It’s a scientific website,” Sherlock says, with a note of testiness.

“Well yeah. But there’re no pictures.”

“I’m not a photographer.”

“Or recipes.”

“If people can’t work what I’m doing out for themselves, why should I help?”

John chuckles. It’s not cruel laughter; Sherlock realises that this is yet another moment when John somehow likes him for being himself. As soon as he’s certain John isn’t looking, he smiles down at the pastry.

_Click._

John is certainly quick with his camera phone for someone who hates technology.

“Tell me you didn’t just take a picture,” Sherlock warns.

“Yep. Sherlock Holmes doing what he does best and looking happy about it.” _At least John assumed it was pleasure about the pastry._ “It’s for my latest blog entry, I’ve finally come up with an idea. I’m going to do an entry all about you.”

“As you’ve pointed out, there’s already a website about me. _By_ me.”

“Yep. But this is only one entry and it’s going to have all the touchy feely stuff you hate. Starting with pictures.”

_Click._

Sherlock moves quickly and, by adding two fingers, renders that one almost certainly unusable.

“Relax,” John grins. “I'll just use that first one and one of the final thing. I’m going to write about all the history and interesting facts you talk about all the time but don’t bother to share on your own site, but first you’re going to tell me how to make that pastry and I’m going to write it down. Sherlock’s first recipe for people to try at home.”

He glances back over his shoulder and winks.

Sherlock is feeling a strange combination of overjoyed and yet helpless. He never intends to start giving clear instructions on the art of making filo pastry, but when he opens his mouth that’s what comes out.

 

 

 

\--

 

John still has his limp and it’s starting to worry Sherlock.

It’s been three months now and John seems resigned. He’s confessed about his Catch 22 situation; needing to work to be healthy but not being about to work until he’s better. He’s getting by, he says, even if sitting around in complete safety doesn’t suit him.

And that’s the problem. Because all John _does_ is sit around in safety, even if he’s currently engrossed in this strangely flattering, wonderful project to catalog Sherlock’s life and work in his blog. Baking is hardly dangerous and, while not without its thrills, not exactly something the hard-core adrenalin addict seeks out as a hobby.

But baking is all Sherlock can offer John. It’s only a matter of time before John gets bored of him, and should John wake up tomorrow magically healed then it would be perhaps a matter of weeks before they began to drift apart.

Sherlock wishes he was selfish enough to want John incapacitated and looking adoringly at him for the rest of their lives. He is. He does. But not really. Not in his heart of hearts.

He’s in love with John Watson, and it’s not John’s fault that things aren’t meant to be.

 

 

 

\--

 

“I’ve been invited to a what?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what one is Sherlock. A village fete. You’ve been invited to judge the Women’s Institute baking prizes at the Morlop Green Village Fete. Shows you how popular the blog’s getting…”

Sherlock is curled up on the sofa thumbing through his old handwritten recipe books, which is his is usual habit when something isn’t going right in his life and he’s trying to fix it. He is not in the mood for village fetes and even at his absolute best he’d never be in the mood for the WI.

“That’s popularity is it?” he snaps.

“Oh c’mon Sherlock. They’ve even given us rooms – well ok _a_ room – at the village pub for the night. It’s the closest I’ll get to a holiday in ages.”

Sherlock looks up and John is giving him what he no doubt thinks in an appealing, persuasive look.

And damn him it’s working.

 

 

 

\--

 

The Morlop Green Village Fete is almost exactly what anyone who has ever watched Midsomer Murders is imagining the Morlop Green Village Fete to be like. There are coconut shies and an ice-cream van and donkey rides. There is bunting in abundance.

Sherlock had initially thought he was in hell upon seeing all of this, but it turns out that there’s a special part of this hell reserved for him and it’s in the WI tent. Thirty ladies are all wearing deerstalkers and waiting for him to judge their skills in a variety of baking categories _(he wishes to god John hadn’t used that picture of him in one to illustrate his piece on game pie and he wishes twice as hard that he’d been fast enough to dodge that bloody camera_ ). There is a great deal of wittering.

Thankfully he is spared most of it because the women are rather intimidated by him and have gathered around John instead. John looks like he’s suffering, but there’s a glint in his eye when he looks at Sherlock and it means that however much John’s suffering he’s enjoying watching Sherlock suffer more.

Sherlock turns to the only bit that interests him: the food. There are four prizes: Best Victoria Sponge, Best Decorated Bread, Greatest Game Pie _(that bloody deerstalker)_ and the Cake Decoration Prize. Eventually, Sherlock is allowed to do his job and begins to inspect them.

“Why aren’t they labelled?” he demands. They are merely numbered.

“It’s for anonymity,” says the most self-important of the ladies (Mrs. King.)

“I don’t know any of you.”

“Sherlock...”

Sherlock glances across at John who is managing to look both encouraging and pleading.

Sherlock sighs, turns his back on the room, and does what he does best.

“One shop bought Victoria Sponge, number four, it’s from an artisan bakery but I could recognise professional cake anywhere. Belongs to the lady with the red hair if the one I can see on the plate is anything to go by. Number one’s husband made the cake for her, and he also made the cake for number five’s as well suggesting cheating of both a marital and baking nature. Men always have a smaller jam to buttercream ratio. The fact that both are made by the same person is obvious. Number two is either the vicar’s wife or else has thing for the vicar; he’s put away two slices of lemon cake in my presence today and I can smell the lemon zest in this buttercream. Number seven is… dry. Three is an alcoholic… Mrs. Abbot wasn’t it? And six loathes you all. So I declare the winner to be the husband of cake number one’s entrant. Cake one is technically better, which means it was made for the mistress.”

Sherlock turns around to face the group. He’s pleased with himself and he hasn’t even tried any of the cakes yet.

A lot of pale, stunned faces look back at him.

Several things then happen.

Mrs. Bryans (cake one) lunges for Melody Harding (cake five) and they begin fighting. Mr. Bryans (technically now the first prize holder) tries to separate them and is socked in the jaw by Mr. Jones (not connected with the competition but a long-time admirer of Mrs. Bryans.)

Mrs. Gilder (the vicar’s wife and non-entrant) launches herself at Mrs. Noddings (cake two) whom she has long held suspicions about. Mr. Noddings and the vicar look at each other awkwardly, unsure of whether they should be joining in.

Helen Farleigh (cake six) does indeed loathe them all and takes it upon herself to tell Mrs. King exactly what she thinks of them all. Mrs. King is not the leader of the WI group but wishes she was and therefore takes twice as much offence, resulting in a certain amount of hair-pulling.

Jessica Abbott’s alcoholism shall be left uncommented on, which is probably a good thing because she takes Sherlock commenting on it rather badly and manages to land a good sock to Sherlock’s jaw before John dives forward to restrain her.

For a few seconds the marquee is full of flailing limbs, smashed cakes and flying deerstalkers. The average over-used marquee is not up to quite so many people thrashing about in it, and when Mr. Jones sends Mr. Bryans reeling into one of the more important supports the marquee rather gives up.

The next thing Sherlock knows is that John is hauling him through the exit and they end up sprawled on the grass as the tent comes down on top of the WI.

Sherlock looks across as John. Far from looking annoyed, he is looking back at Sherlock with the fondest, happiest look Sherlock has ever imagined being directed at him.

There is a cry from inside the collapsed tent. _(“STAY AWAY FROM THAT LOAF!”)_

It’s no good; they both descend into hysterical laughter. They are practically rolling around in the grass, unable to even think about getting up.

John eventually calms enough to be able to breathe.

“The cakes Sherlock,” he pants. “You were supposed to judge the cakes.”

“I did.”

John giggles slightly hysterically, shoulder to shoulder on the ground with Sherlock. “I suppose you did, you absolute… lunatic!”

Sherlock doesn’t know how to respond to that. Thankfully he doesn’t need to. John has that joyous amazed look again.

He is just wondering how he caused it so that he can repeat the process when John leans across and kisses him.

 

 

 

\--

 

It isn’t until some time later on the train (the pub wasn’t too keen on letting them stay) that John finally notices that he left his cane in the tent. Sherlock tries to smile.

 

 

 

\--

End part two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t worry there is one more chapter still to come. This fic is refusing to go just yet. 
> 
> If the Great British Bake Off has taught me anything it’s that filo pastry is a nightmare to make from scratch and that even amazing bakers rarely bother. You’ve got to get it the size of a bed-sheet and thin enough to see through. 
> 
> Any comments/kudos are deeply appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe this chapter does fulfil my promise of ‘pie’ to Flawedamythyst and Carysabel74. Poor 1electricpirate never knew what she was getting into when she asked for a simple Bakery AU. I’m sure she just wanted Sherlock and John flirting over cupcakes…

John re-reads the email for the eleventh time. He keeps going back and staring at it, not sure what to think.

 

Most of it is quite dull, but there are certain words that stick out: _‘interest in your blog’, ‘increasingly popular.’_

_‘Book deal.’_

 

And then there’s a number.

 

It’s not a huge number, but it’s a larger one than he’s seen in a while. It’s a number that he’s sure Mrs. Hudson would be pleased to accept as contribution for the ridiculous amount of rent that she pretends he doesn’t owe and he nevertheless keeps track of.

 

Someone wants him to write a book about Sherlock. Not a recipe book, the email is very clear about that, but a book about Sherlock’s approach to baking with perhaps a few recipes thrown in. Like the website, but with better pictures and more structure….

 

It could be a great stepping stone, the publisher suggests. John agrees in a way. It wouldn’t make Sherlock a celebrity baker – John once compared him to Paul Hollywood had Sherlock sulked all afternoon – but it would surely lead to more interesting consultations.

 

Someone is, in essence, offering to pay John to do what he already does for free in a way that will benefit Sherlock. And John is hesitating.

 

As with everything that has happened in the last few weeks, it can be traced back to the kiss. Back to the conversation two hours after the kiss when he’d told Sherlock the kiss was a mistake and Sherlock had nodded in agreement so quickly that he came close to whiplash.

 

It was a mistake. Yes he’d been high on adrenalin and fondness and acted on instinct, and maybe, _maybe_ Sherlock had kissed back a bit… but it didn’t mean anything. Or if it meant something it meant it only to John.

 

He’s seen Sherlock’s face afterwards; the careful blank look that accompanied anything Sherlock was deeply nervous about.  He’d not seen that face since a sheikh had employed Sherlock to bake a birthday cake for his daughter with one hundred rubies hidden inside. It turns out that even Sherlock gets nervous about sticking seven million pounds worth of gems in at gas mark 6.

 

If Sherlock felt anything, then he certainly wasn’t ready to deal with John’s feelings. Even John isn’t ready to deal with his feelings. He wasn’t entirely sure he’d _had_ any until the kiss had thrown them both off balance.

 

It’s not even as if they see the same amount of each other; John has been in and out a lot more now he’s able to be more active and Sherlock seems to be busier too and less eager to share any of it with John. When John goes back to work they’ll see even less of each other. They’ll be just flatmates.

 

That’s what he signed up for after all.

 

 

 

\--

 

 

John misses his early mornings of watching Sherlock bake. He’s been covering for Simon for two weeks and has missed all but two.

 

Perhaps it’s just nice to see Sherlock doing what everyone else thinks of as ‘normal’ baking. The food he makes in the morning are the products that people are actually going to buy and eat in the café and therefore he’s limited to bread and pastry and things that don’t generally make the flat uninhabitable. He looks so serene and practiced while doing it and watching someone do something they’re really good at is always attractive.

 

He isn’t pining about it or anything, but the first day back at work it did cross his mind; ‘I bet Sherlock’s doing the rolls now.’ Then a bit later he’d wondered if Sherlock was doing the cherry pie or Baker Street ‘Bakewell’ Pudding (apparently the people of Bakewell get properly shitty if you start claiming that a pudding made outside the city is the genuine Bakewell article.)

 

After his (exhausting) first shift John popped in to the café to check and was irrationally pleased that he was right about the cherry pie. He bought some to take upstairs and refused to let Mrs. Hudson wave his money away.

 

Now, two weeks later, it's perfectly natural that he might still be wired after his shift and looking forward to sitting down, watching Sherlock bake, thinking about his latest blog entry and _not_ thinking about that email.

 

He climbs the stairs and frowns as he reaches the kitchen door. There’s no light from inside and Sherlock should have already been baking for a good hour.

 

The coat is still in the living room, which is strong indication that Sherlock hasn’t gone far.

 

He’s probably just overslept, which is far more amusing than it should be. John smirks, moves through the kitchen and down the hall to Sherlock’s bedroom.

 

“Sheeerlock. It’s six am!” he calls through the door in a sing-song wakeup call that Harry (a loudmouth and even more of an early morning person than him) had perfected at the age of seven.

 

John is just beginning to wonder if Sherlock is inside when there is finally a sleepy response.

 

“What’s that got to do with me?”

 

John laughs. “Feeding the five thousand, remember? Or do you want Mrs. Hudson to throttle you?”

 

Figuring that Sherlock has had warning enough, John opens the door.

 

Sherlock is in bed, propped up on his elbows, and looking both sleepy and slightly annoyed. His hair is rumpled, and John tries not to be distracted by that perfectly normal human quality. He leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms.

 

“So what’s up? Because Mr. Burkett will be through that café door at seven-thirty on the dot for the first of your toasted muffins.”

 

“Oh that,” Sherlock huffs and drops back down onto his pillow. “The arrangement has ended.”

 

“Arrangement?”

 

“With Mrs. Hudson. My contribution of ingredients and baked goods over the last two years has earned her a profit of eleven thousand, six-hundred, and nineteen pounds which, combined with the ten thousand I paid up front, covers the cost of the kitchen she had to install after the fire.”

 

John looks back out into the corridor in the direction of the kitchen, as if seeing it for the first time. 

 

“Seventeen thousand pounds? On a kitchen?! What about insurance?”

 

“They would only contribute nine thousand which was nowhere near enough for my requirements.”

 

John does some quick calculation. “Are you telling me that we have a kitchen worth _thirty-thousand pounds_?”

 

Sherlock shrugs with exaggerated indifference.

 

“It’s just about satisfactory.”

 

“Oh piss off,” John snorts. “You love that kitchen.”

 

“Anyway, that’s my debt paid in full. No more catering to the unsophisticated palette of office workers and students.”

 

John blinks.

 

“You’re stopping? Just like that?”

 

Sherlock frowns. “You didn’t think I _liked_ it did you?”

 

In truth, John thought he had. Maybe not the boring work of it, but he’d thought that at least Sherlock liked their little routine and the satisfaction of seeing it all finished and off to be admired and consumed.

 

“I-“

 

“Is that all? Or can I go back to sleep?”

 

It suddenly occurs to John that he has just burst into Sherlock’s bedroom, woken Sherlock up, and then stayed for an uninvited chat, which was a bit overly matey even when they were on better terms than this.

 

“Oh. Uh. Of course.”

 

He turns to leave, gets a sudden burst of confidence, and turns back.

 

“Actually there was something I wanted to ask.”

 

For a second John thinks he sees the blank, worried look again and wonders if Sherlock thinks he is about to attempt something again.

 

“Yes?”

 

“I’ve had an enquiry about a… book. Writing one. About you.”

 

Sherlock’s nose actually wrinkles. “A recipe book?”

 

“No. Like the blog. But… more… organised.”

 

“I wouldn’t bother if I were you.”

 

That is certainly not the response John expected. Sherlock is looking at his most derisive.

 

“Don’t you like the idea?” John asks.

 

Sherlock shrugs. “I don’t care. But _you_ dislike not finishing things and for the last week you’ve struggled to write even one blog post. When you open up the page you look like you did back when your therapist was making you write it.”

 

It’s true that inspiration hasn’t been flowing this week, but things haven’t been the same between them. He’s been busier and Sherlock’s not been the same since they- since John kissed Sherlock.

 

 John had hoped that in time things would settle down but judging by Sherlock’s dismissal… Sherlock didn’t think things were ever going to be the same again.

 

“Maybe that’s what I need,” says John carefully. “A bit of a deadline to beat the old writer’s block.”

 

Again something flashes across Sherlock’s face and John would give quite a lot right then for some sort of decoder that allows him to understand Sherlock’s emotions. Because right now he hasn’t got a clue what is going through Sherlock’s mind.

 

At least when Sherlock speaks John recognises the annoyance.

 

“Or maybe you shouldn’t sign a contract just to force yourself to spend time with me.”

 

“I’m not-“

 

“Well, that’s that question solved. Is that all or can I go back to my first proper lie in in two years?”

 

“Uh-“

 

Sherlock yanks the covers up sharply and turns away, leaving John to stare at his back in confusion.

 

 

 

 

\--

 

 

A few days later and John isn’t moping. Not really. It’s just there’s only so much you can do when it’s four am, you’re wide awake, and there are no call-outs.

 

Kevin is awake too and has just handed him one of the cupcakes his daughter made for them all, which they eat while John taps away at his laptop in frustration.

 

He doesn’t finish the cake; there’s too much pink icing and the sponge is dry. While John would rather try and put out the next fire they face by eating it rather than voice that thought to Kevin, it makes him think about what Sherlock would say.

 

Well, OK, Sherlock probably wouldn’t lay into an eight-year old about dry cake, but the face he’d make while trying to restrain himself would be amusing.

 

Could he do a blog post about that?

 

That’s the problem; everything he wants to put is too personal. He can’t include his thoughts on Sherlock’s expressions, or how he wishes he could have some idea of what’s happening inside Sherlock’s mind most of the time, or how much he wishes he hadn’t backtracked over the kiss because even if Sherlock hated him at least he’d have tried…

 

Saved by the bell.

 

In an instant everyone is moving. John slams the laptop shut and switches immediately into action mode. He’s suited up and practically in the fire engine when a hand comes down on his shoulder.

 

“John, wait!”

 

John turns. It’s Sam, Mike’s old protégé, who is normally tough as nails. Right now he looks deeply uncomfortable.

 

“You have to stay behind,” he snaps, and then winces at his tone. He sighs and then pulls John away from the chaos of slamming doors and rushing people.

 

“Why?!” John shouts back over the noise.

 

“Because the call out is to your flat!”

 

 

 

 --

 

End Chapter Three

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh what’s that? I said this would be the last chapter? LIES! There is one more to go because it turns out that my outline, while still accurate, involves more words than I expected. 
> 
> And if you’ve never had a Bakewell Pudding then I must insist you make one and eat it with custard. Do NOT, I repeat NOT, get confused with a Bakewell Tart. The Bakewell Pudding is superior is every way. In the final chapter I will post links to recipes for everything featured in this fic. 
> 
> It also turns out that my knowledge of fire stations begins and ends with one school visit and a lot of London’s Burning episodes that I was too scared to watch as a kid…


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well the end is finally here. Thank you all for your wonderful comments/kudos, they have been appreciated a great deal. This chapter finally fulfils the prompt and they are, for the first time, in an actual bakery.

Sherlock would feel a lot happier if he was one hundred percent sure that he didn’t set fire to the kitchen on purpose.

 

The first part was an accident, he’s certain about that. The Bunsen burner slipped; the very same Bunsen burner Mrs. Hudson, face blotchy with fury, is currently threatening to wrap around his neck and throttle him with.

 

He could have reacted faster, rather than staring at the flames as they consumed the kitchen curtains.  He remembers thinking that, in a way, it was perfect because he’d finally done something that would interest John. He’d stood there thinking that while he could have been using the fire extinguisher. By the time he came to his senses it was too late to do anything but get out.  

 

They are waiting at the end of the street, watching as the firefighters do whatever firefighters are meant to do once they’ve put the fires out. John isn’t here.

 

Behind him there’s a slam of a car door and Mrs. Hudson immediately loses interest in abusing Sherlock.  

 

“John!”

 

Sherlock spins around. John is getting out of a taxi looking understandably tense. He walks over to them and, after ascertaining that they both seem unhurt he raises his eyebrow at Sherlock.

 

“Explanation?”

 

John holds up his hand before Mrs. Hudson can launch into round two of ‘reasons I have the worst tenant in history.’

 

“Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock can’t answer. Answering means more than explaining about the fire, it would mean working through emotions and fears and offering them up to John. _‘I’m desperately in love with you and I know that I’m not the sort of person you want and I thought I was strong enough to push you away but, just for a second, I looked at the flames and wished I was the sort of person who would set a kitchen on fire to get your attention.’_

 

Because John would _want_ that person.

 

He still hasn’t answered. His mouth opens just a fraction and closes again.

 

“Sherlock are you alright?”

 

“No I’m not alright!” Sherlock snaps. “You _weren’t_ _there_!”

 

The voice comes from the same selfish, dark part of him that baking has always calmed and that John rouses so easily. It’s the part that looked at the fire and thought about how good John would look putting it out.

 

John frowns. “They’d never let have let me work this Sherlock-”

 

“Not now! When I needed you this morning.”

 

John’s reading between the lines.

 

“Sherlock please tell me you didn’t do this to get my attention-?” His voice is faint.

 

“YOU WHAT?!” shrieks Mrs. Hudson.

 

“Do be quiet Mrs. Hudson. I’ll pay for a new kitchen and I’ll spend the next hundred years slaving away making pastry for you. I don’t mind; John likes watching me do it.”

 

It’s working. He’s at his very worst and yet there’s something in John’s eyes, a spark that Sherlock thought had died in those nervous hours after their kiss.

 

Even as John turns and storms off, Sherlock is formulating a plan.

 

 

\--

 

 

The plan is a good one. It needs to be, if only because the flat has been safe for over a week and John is still staying at the fire station and refusing to answer his phone.

 

The first part is easy. He logs into John’s blog and creates a new post.

Want to Know a Secret?

By John H. Watson

 

Sherlock here, everyone. I’m going to keep this short and to the point (the very opposite of John’s usual blogging style.)

 

One of the benefits of my chosen career is the knowledge and experience required to strip down famous products to their ingredients and work out exactly how it was made. Mostly it’s tedious, but you can learn some very interesting things. In my experience, the more secret the recipe, the more frightened the business is of it being found out.

 

As I’m currently out of commission due to a burnt out kitchen, I thought I’d share some of those secret recipes. It’s perfectly legal to _speculate_ , after all.  

 

Check back here this time tomorrow for the first.

 

SH

 

 

\--

 

 

 

Sherlock posts the entry and picks up his phone.

 

To: John

Could be dangerous. SH

 

 

\--

 

 

The first thing Sherlock notices when he wakes up is the pain in his head. It’s matched pretty evenly by the one in his neck from where his head must have lolled in the chair he’s currently… tied to.

 

Oh.

 

Sherlock remembers running out of vanilla and being forced to make a late night trip to get some. He can’t remember getting more than a hundred yards from his front door.

 

He looks around. They are in an enormous factory. Even without the logo splashed across the wall, Sherlock would have known the brand of bread made here by smell. It’s been shut down and the dark, unmoving conveyor belts snake around the chairs he and John are tied to.

 

_John._

 

The text _worked_. Perhaps he’d been on the street too, coming to find him to see what the text was about. Either that or their kidnappers thought he might know something too.

 

As they are alone Sherlock tries to nudge John’s chair with his foot and, after a worryingly long time, John starts awake.

 

“Wha-?! Where the hell are we?”

 

Sherlock tells him the name of the factory.

 

“This is to do with that blog post, isn’t it?” John hisses. They are both squirming, trying to get free of their restraints.

 

“Yes it is.”

 

It’s a new voice. A man, broad and bald-headed, steps out of the shadows. He’s wearing leather gloves and speaking in an overly formal voice that his Yorkshire accent clashes with. A younger, weedier man with shiny, over-gelled hair steps out from behind him but remains silent.

 

“Who are you?” John demands.

 

The first man shrugs minutely. “Not important. What is important is that your friend here knows certain things about my employers that cannot come to light. I’ve been tasked with making sure that neither of you make any revealing blog posts.”

 

 _“Is this why you refuse to let me buy shop-bought bread?”_ John mutters. “ _What the hell is in this stuff?!”_

 

“SHUT UP!” roars the bigger man.

 

“I think we should put them in the oven,” says the weedy one suddenly. He sounds like a kid with a magnifying glass and an interest in ants.

 

The larger one seems to be in charge, but Sherlock is worried at the considering glance he gives in the direction of the industrial ovens.

 

He snorts as derisively as he can.

 

“I post a blog entry about revealing a scandalous secret recipe and within hours my remains are found in the oven of one of the biggest bread making factories in the country after the bosses mysteriously ordered the factory to close overnight? Come on, at this time of night there should be a hundred people working. You do realise that the point is to divert attention away from your employers? What do you expect people to think – that I’m a serial arsonist who wanted to set himself on fire?”

 

“Sherlock, you aren’t meant to be helping them. And incidentally that’s a bit rich coming from someone who set fire to a kitchen because his flatmate dared to go to work.”

 

“Yes!” The bald kidnapper clicks his fingers. “Arson! You’re always setting fire to stuff. I did my research…”

 

Sherlock would quite like to point out that it was only twice, but he’s too pleased with the direction this kidnapper’s mind is heading in to risk it. Minutes later and the two kidnappers are arguing about the place to set a series of small fires to make it look like arson. They untie Sherlock and John from the chair – keeping their hands tightly bound behind them – and force them into a store-room. There is a screeching from outside the door as something heavy is dragged in front to lock them in.

 

“Right, is it me, or are we being kidnapped by complete morons?” says John. Even in the dark Sherlock can make out his puzzled expression.

 

Sherlock grins. “Terrible. I never thought kidnappers would be so stupid. I’m a bit embarrassed.”

 

“Not on my account I hope?”

 

“Oh no. Are we actually in any danger from the fire?”

 

“They’ve just locked us in a well-ventilated room behind a flame-proof door in what seems to be a very well designed fire-conscious factory with numerous sprinklers.”

 

“How embarrassing. I planned this; I accept some of the blame for this ineptitude.”

 

John sighs. “ _Of course_ you tried to get kidnapped. I’ve never seen anyone look so happy to wake up tied to a chair and surrounded by thugs. Why, Sherlock?”

 

Once again Sherlock was being asked to explain his motivations, but this time he couldn’t scare John away. They were locked in the same room, standing opposite each other, with their arms still tied behind their backs. Attempting to get kidnapped wasn’t the sort of thing that could be shrugged off with an easy answer.  

 

“I wanted to be the sort of person you… wanted. Someone dangerous. I was very much hoping that we’d get into trouble and I could bring up the kiss and you’d be so full of adrenalin- well, never mind.”

 

Sherlock’s eyesight is good enough to see the stunned look on John’s face.

 

“Bring up the kiss? Why? You were clearly horrified by it. I saw your face!”

 

“Your leg got better! You could go back to everyone you wanted and you had no reason to hang around writing a baking blog any more. And I was right! You went back to work, you stopped writing, you turned down the book deal-”

 

“You told me to!”

 

“Because I could see you didn’t want to do it. You’re attracted to danger and I make cakes for a living.”

 

John is still gaping at him. At length he manages to find his voice.

 

“You’re not dangerous?!” he says hoarsely.

 

“Of course not!”

 

Suddenly John is laughing. He’s virtually hysterical.

 

“Sherlock you make toxic yeast with undetectable poison. You started a riot at a village baking contest just by looking at the cakes. You set fire to the kitchen to get my attention and got yourself kidnapped – on purpose – for what seems to be a date! You managed to get kidnapped by making one single blog post…”

 

“Technically the second fire was an accident, though I’ll readily admit it might have been subconsciously done.”

 

“Thank god you chose baking as a career; because your job may not be dangerous but _you_ are. If you chose something actually life threatening I think you’d probably end up destroying London…”

 

Sherlock is at a loss. John doesn’t think he was boring. He doesn’t seem to regret the kiss; he’d thought Sherlock was uninterested...

 

“So you don’t regret kissing me?”

 

“No!”

 

“Oh.” Sherlock blinks, taking it all in. “Can I kiss you again?”

 

“Sherlock, we’re tied up in a cupboard. I thought you’d never ask.”

 

They still have their arms tied behind their backs, which means that Sherlock can’t do half the things he wants to. Instead he bends down and presses his mouth the John’s. Their lack of freedom makes them all the more enthusiastic and their chests press together so that they were as close to each other as they can get.

 

And then there’s an alarm and water sprays down on them.

 

“That would be the sprinklers!” John yells over the noise before leaning back up to kiss Sherlock again.

 

\--

 

The End.

 

**Inspiration for John's Blog**

[www.joepastry.com](http://www.joepastry.com)

 

**Recipes for Everything Mentioned in the Fic:**

[The Seven Million Pounds of Rubies Cake](http://www.bbcgoodfood.com/recipes/1369645/vanilla-and-pomegranate-cake) (aka pomegranate and vanilla cake)

[Bumblebee Macarons](http://allrecipes.co.uk/recipe/16507/heavenly-lemon-macaroons.aspx) (yellow macarons, which you can then decorate)

[The Baker Street “Bakewell” Pudding](http://www.bbc.co.uk/food/recipes/raspberrybakewellpud_92328)

[Filo Pastry](http://www.wikihow.com/Make-Filo-Pastry)

[Cherry Pie](http://www.bbc.co.uk/food/recipes/cherrypie_91973)

[Stamford’s Fruitcake](http://www.bbc.co.uk/food/recipes/celebration_cake_61952)

[The Experimental Mint Green Cupcake](http://www.thebakingexplorer.com/2013/07/absinthe-cupcakes.html) (aka Absinthe Cupcakes)

[High Calorie, High Everything Shortbread](http://www.bbc.co.uk/food/recipes/shortbread_1290) (aka the Shortbread Sherlock wishes he’d made for John)

[The Dough that Brought Them Together](http://www.dovesfarm.co.uk/recipes/traditional-wholemeal-bread/) (no IDEA how Sherlock set fire to the place with this v. basic recipe, then again he was probably experimenting on it. Don’t do that please.)

[The Game is On Game Pie](http://www.bbc.co.uk/food/recipes/gamepie_8555) (hold the Deerstalker)

[Victoria Sponge](http://www.bbc.co.uk/food/recipes/mary_berrys_perfect_34317) (aka Sherlock is Judging You)

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading. I hope you've enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it.


End file.
